


See Where You Are

by surskitty



Series: Step Aside and See the World [12]
Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Anonymity, Consent Issues, First Time, Identity Issues, M/M, Other, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surskitty/pseuds/surskitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megumi Kitaniji's recently been promoted to Shibuya's conductor, but that doesn't make the composer any less of a mystery, and that's just the way he likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See Where You Are

Megumi might have yearned for the position, might have devoted all his spare hours to Shibuya in a way none of his colleagues understood, but with the erasure of the previous conductor comes a promotion he never quite thought would happen. He’s only just been assigned a mentee; he’s much too young to be the conductor, but the message is clear and the composer’s will is absolute. 

He moves in quickly, quits his day job so he has more for the Game and his music, and the lounge is colder and lonelier than he’d ever thought. The privileges of rank, he supposes, to live without ever needing to share one’s space, but he leaves a bottle of sake out and the dishes get done without his involvement.

Like living with a ghost, and he’d never dream of infringing on his – roommate. 

Still, there’s only so long they can avoid each other, and he’s smoking on the couch one evening when he hears a sound like bells as his heart stops and his wings feel crushed from the strain. It takes him a few seconds to adjust, the composer’s frequency so high above his own, but he scrambles off the couch and onto the floor, cigarette forgotten in his rush to fall to his knees. `Oh, no need for such production on My account,` the composer says, the words going right into his brain without any need for sound, and his eyes flicker upward just long enough to register something inhuman and beautiful, the washed-out semblance of a god.

“Sir,” he says, because what _can_ you say, and he doesn’t dare move, not even as the composer’s fingers snap and his wings register a burst of psi as his cig’s incinerated. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to, he realizes, Shibuya’s power flattening all in its path, and if he’s already caused offense –

His thought stops there, caught and cataloged by the composer’s curiosity, and he hears a soft chuckle. High and feminine, he notices, but that means nothing here and he tries to clear his mind in apology. Please remake him in your image, lord composer – and the figure sweeps over and rests delicate fingers on his shoulder, easing him back up. `Megumi, correct?` the composer says, not expecting an answer, and he doesn’t waste time by giving one. `It's hardly worthwhile for me to erase you right after giving you the promotion you so desired.`

“Yes, sir,” and he’s gently led back onto his feet and then the couch, his spine ramrod straight as the composer looks him over, and the being’s more petite than he expected, though perhaps it’s Megumi who’s too tall. 

`You may think of me as you please,` they add, and he freezes as they lift his sunglasses off and examine his face. His slit pupils must not bother them, though, as they brush his hair out of his face and straighten up his jacket, easing out the wrinkles with a hum, and Megumi just might die from embarrassment if he wasn’t already dead. `I'm unused to visitors, and some familiarity is only to be expected with my new housemate, hmmm?`

“… yes, sir,” he says, and the composer backs off, disappointed somehow, and Megumi can’t believe he’s already screwed up –

`Stop that,` the composer snaps, and he stops entirely, unsure how he’s offended. `I would not have chosen you as my conductor if I did not expect you to be capable of the job, and I have no need for you to fear me. Speak and act freely in My presence; I'll correct you if you do something wrong.`

“Yes, sir,” he says again, forcing himself to relax, and he swears he sees the hint of a smirk on the composer’s face. He can’t tell for sure, though, and something gives him the impression the other being is waiting for something. What, Megumi doesn’t know – it’s not as though he’s that interesting – but at least the composer doesn’t seem angry at his failure to deliver.

It’s unsettling, though, and he feels the echoes of the composer’s frustration, tempered by the knowledge it’s not at _him._ ` Do you have any questions for me?` they ask eventually, and this, at least, he can handle.

“No, sir,” he says honestly, and they’re gone.

* * *

It’s weeks before he sees the composer again, and truth be told, Megumi can’t say he’s disappointed. He receives some suggestions – orders, really – in writing and he follows them, but the composer Themself is as invisible as usual, their presence only recognizable from the continued existence of the UG. But there is a difference, Megumi comes to realize, between when the composer is silent but there and when they’ve gone on walkabout, usually late at night and with no indication other than a _back before the morning_ on the bar counter in an elegant hand.

He’s not quite alone; it only seems like it. 

Sho’s improving faster than Megumi thought possible, the man making art with Noise only to erase them all in one go, but Kariya laughs and informs him the ones who saw the UG are always like that. Megumi wouldn’t know; he’s woefully young for the job, and if some of their recruits are as brilliant as his “protégé” … well, he wonders why he’s been chosen, since it can’t be for his skill. 

`Questioning my judgement?` the composer asks, and he freezes as he walks through the door. `I truly do think well of you, you know.`

“Sir,” he says back, not sure if he believes it, but the composer raises their hand above the couch to call him over and he obeys. They’re seated, this time, sprawled over the cushions like they haven’t a care in the world, and part of him is touched by the courtesy: if the composer can be casual in this strange space, so can he, and he gingerly sits down on the other couch as the composer pours them both cups of tea.

He’s seen casual uses of psi before, of course, has even indulged in practicing a few tricks of his own, but this is something else, the composer remaining impeccably lithe as they don’t quite pick up anything with their hands, and he wonders what touching them would feel like. Blasphemous, he knows, but the composer either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and they both sip from their cups at the same time. “Delicious,” he says, and the composer inclines a brow. 

`I suspect you would say as much about anything of Mine,` they say, and it’s true: nothing the composer makes could be anything less than perfect, and they take an amusement from that thought Megumi doesn’t understand. `You're here for your loyalty, my conductor; I see no reason to grace the power-hungry fools who fill our ranks with my presence.`

“Sir,” he says, swallowing, and part of him wants to defend the other reapers. They’re good people, all of them, but if the composer dislikes them … and they lean forward to lift his chin up with their cold fingers as he shivers. 

`Your loyalty to them, too, does you credit,` they say simply, and he flushes as they lean back, giving him space he’s not sure he wants. The composer is beautiful, a careful androgyny apparent beneath the crackling of power and light that defines them, and they sound under a scan precisely how the city does, no more and no less. He might as well be alone, as far as his wings can tell; only the pervasive sense of _home_ says otherwise, and it’s hard to _not_ want to do them proud. They might know exactly what he’s thinking, his wings useless at sealing off his psi from the owner of the UG that made them, but they smile at him indulgently and he feels … humbled. 

“Is there something you wanted from me?” he asks slowly, and the composer laughs, pushing their hair back with their hand, and it’s a bizarrely _human_ gesture. 

` I was human once,` they correct, not unkindly, and it’s strange to think of them like that. They certainly aren’t **_now,_** and living with them just confirms it: Megumi might as well be living alone for how much they impact the world around them, at least overtly. ` You're an interesting little specimen of humanity, aren't you,` they muse, and he wishes he more often wore his sunglasses indoors. `You know I can't be all I'm acting, and you know you could challenge me for my power, but you won't, will you. You simply ... like knowing your place.`

“My place is where I can best serve Shibuya,” he says, voice neutral, and the composer laughs again. It’s a bit annoying, actually, but he can get used to it; what matters is that they both do what’s best for Shibuya, and his own face quirks into a smile. It’s good the composer likes him: as strange as they are, Megumi worried he wouldn’t be satisfactory, but maybe he really is good enough.

`And you still don't even wonder who I used to be!` The floor shakes with the composer’s laughter, but Megumi’s motionless, sure this is a test. He honestly _doesn’t_ wonder: the composer will tell him if he needs to know, but more than that … Megumi wasn’t anyone to write home about when he was alive. Neither were most of the other reapers, from what he knows of them: what does it matter, who the composer had been originally? Megumi will serve them just the same, just as he would any other composer, and he realizes belatedly that they might be looking for **personal** loyalty, rather than for the position, but the moment passes without chastisement and he lets it go.

He shifts uncomfortably, and the composer moves, too, their head on their arm like listening to him’s the most fascinating thing they’ve done all day, and he realizes belatedly that that might actually be true, that this sublime being condescends to talk to him and only him, and that’s – odd. He fancies himself the only person the composer can trust for a moment, but it’s only a fantasy: he doubts the composer trusts him much at all just yet. “The person I was before I died was full of wasted potential. Forgive me if I prefer to only know You as You are, and not Your history as a flawed being.”

The composer’s lip curls, whether in distaste or into the grin of a hungry wolf he doesn’t know, but they sit up and drink their tea, perfectly elegant. `I really do like you,` they say, though he’s not sure why. `I almost wish I erased my last one earlier.`

A pit forms in his stomach at that: the last Shibuya conductor was a genius, and he’s … nowhere close. “Sir,” he says, at a loss, and they lean forward, serious. 

`My last conductor hated me so much she ignored the Game out of spite,` they say, voice flat. `I don't care how you think of me, Megumi, but Shibuya is the most important thing and you can do whatever you like so long as you _put Shibuya first._ Always.`

“Yessir.” He can do that, and he’s – he’s glad the last one’s gone, if that was what happened. He still doesn’t know if he was the best choice, but if the last conductor didn’t do what was best _for Shibuya …._

` Assassination attempts are fine, by the way,` they add, and he splutters.

“Sir! I would **_never_** –!”

` And Minamimoto?` they continue drily, and he goes silent. `I don't expect you to value My existence over your own friends, Megumi. A little ambition keeps us all sharp, and if your protégé aims for my position, all I expect you to do is make sure he keeps Shibuya out of it. If it impacts his work, you need to intervene, but otherwise he can do as he wishes.`

Megumi hadn’t even thought about that scenario, hadn’t _wanted_ to think about it, but the composer’s compassion and generosity … he’s awestruck, he really is, and they incline their head in bemusement. “Th-thank you, sir,” he manages, and they hum lowly. “Does this mean you don’t …?”

` Expect you to protect me?` they finish, and he nods uncertainly. `Megumi, you don't even know my **name.**`

“Nor do I wish to, sir,” he blurts out, and the composer’s hum changes pitch. “I don’t want to risk my service to Shibuya being affected by personal feelings towards the composer, whoever You may be.”

A derisive laugh. “Megumi, you don’t have any choice in the matter,” he hears out loud for once, but he clamps his eyes shut and lowers his head as his sense of the room changes, the composer downtuning and standing up, their feet thumping softly against the aquarium floor. “You’re going to learn something about me as we work together anyway, dear conductor; you might as well have a name and face to put to my title.”

They sound young, but so does everyone in the UG: it doesn’t mean anything and they can’t make him look. He shudders as their cool hands lift his chin up to examine his face, and he feels their soft fingertips on his stubble, but he keeps his eyes shut and firmly rejects the feather-light suggestion to do otherwise. “Sir,” he says, not sure what to say, and they sigh in disappointment before pushing his hair back and setting his sunglasses on his face.

“Maybe you do have a spine after all,” they murmur, and they step away, the UG thickening as they uptune and thinning again as they’re gone, leaving him alone. 

He doesn’t know what to do with any of that, so he simply waits to catch his breath again before retiring to his room to work. No matter the composer’s idiosyncrasies, they both have work to do, and he’s not going to slack off simply because they felt like playing with him. Shibuya is more important. 

* * *

He shouldn’t be surprised when he hears music out in the lounge, but he is anyway, some children’s television show blaring loud enough to hear it in the hallway, and he almost sticks his head out to tell the reaper responsible to turn it down. Almost: the walls are soundproofed, and he realizes the composer must be testing him again before he fails it.

Instead, he puts his headphones on before heading in to see what all the fuss is about, and he’s glad he has one of Minamimoto’s bandannas in his pocket if he needs an impromptu blindfold to preserve the composer’s dignity. They’re uptuned for now, but he doubts that’ll last, and he heads straight behind the counter to rearrange the coffee supplies and start up a batch of espresso. (He used to think it was a wall reaper redecorating out of spite, but he suspects he was wrong: the composer merely means to keep them all sharp, and his smirk widens in appreciation for their genius.) “How do you take yours, sir?” he calls, and he hears a laugh, though they answer in a reverberating imprint like always.

`Four sugars and no cream today, dear Megumi; I think I might indulge my sweet tooth.`

It’s a simple enough request, and he rests the cup and seltzer chaser down on the table in front of them, before sitting on the other couch and lighting up his morning smoke. The composer snorts in disapproval, but he’s hardly the only reaper with this particular vice and they don’t say anything, only watch him piercingly. “Sir, is there something you need?”

`No,` and: `I wonder what it would take to break you.`

He should be scared – he’s sure the composer _wants_ him to be scared – but he simply isn’t, no fear of erasure in him so long as it keeps any of the composer’s destructive impulses away from Shibuya. “You have that right,” he says unsteadily, and the composer brushes their fingers as the air’s pushed out of his useless chest and he can’t move. 

They stand up, their slight frame dwarfing him as they’re painful to look at and he shuts his eyes on instinct, that bit of freedom still allowed to him as his wings lock up and his psi, hearing, everything goes silent according to the composer’s will. `I can heal you from anything I do to you,` they muse, `but you don't care, do you.`

He does – he really does, but he’ll endure whatever the composer might do, because it’s for the city, isn’t it? If they take out their frustrations on him, rather than the misguided fools who make up the townsfolk, unworthy of the composer’s mercy, then that’s all to the good, and he feels his awareness come back along with a pressure on his neck. The composer’d moved behind him to lean on his shoulder while he was distracted, and he stays carefully still though the contact burns. “Sir,” he says, and they take his wrist in hand and guide him through removing his headphones, his skin and flesh staticking away painlessly from their proximity. 

The music stopped, but he hears his blood rushing through his head, even deceased as he is, and the composer runs their fingers through his hair. They really like doing that, he thinks hysterically, and their lips brush the top of his head with a kiss.

This really wasn’t in the job description. 

He’s not sure he minds, however, though his mind nearly changes as he glances down to his Noise-skeletal hand, bright red and a serpentine jaw instead of fingers without any input on his part, but the composer hums and it reverts again seamlessly. “Sir, I don’t know what you want from me,” he says, a bit plaintive, and the composer snorts a laugh again.

`If you'd been as isolated as I have, you'd know **exactly** what I want,` they reply, but he still doesn’t understand. ` You're the third person I've spoken to in twenty years and the second to not find me loathsome.`

It still takes him a second, the idea’s so foreign to put in the same sentence as the composer, but he gets there: they’re lonely and want contact with another being, maybe even ….

They nod, their hair brushing against his face, and he has no idea what to say to that. `The horizontal tango, the beast with two backs, a dance as old as time -- Megumi, you would not _believe_ how bored I am,` and he still can’t – he’s flattered; he couldn’t not be, but the composer’s so far above him that he can’t fit this into reality.

“Sir, I’m not worth it,” he says, and he stiffens and hisses as they climb onto him, their vibe painfully high against his own, and there’s no way he can compare. He **doesn’t** compare, and even having thought the composer is beautiful doesn’t prepare him for the reality of them perched above him, their fingers burying into his shoulders as they look down at him with a face he still can’t see, and he’s grateful that at least they’re uptuned, at least they aren’t presenting him with a human form he’d have to reconcile with the god they are, and they growl, a primal sound that gets to him down to his bones, though he wishes it wouldn’t.

` If you're uninterested, I'll drop this,` they say, and he’s silent. He feels them easing their power into his head and leans back, unsure how to give them better access as his wings solidify through the couch, crackling in protest as the composer reminds him and his soul that he’s the Shibuya conductor; he need have no secrets from his composer, and he yields though he barely knows how. `May I?` they ask, and he agrees without even knowing, sure that any harm they do won’t matter. They grab his wings and pull, and he loses track of where he is, where they both are, as the composer judges his thoughts and feelings for their own opaque purposes. 

They let him go a while later, tired and sore, and he comes to his senses sprawled over the couch, his head in their lap as they stroke his hair. `That'll do for starters,` they say, like that was nothing to them, and he realizes belatedly he’s still fully dressed.

It really **was** nothing to them, and he marvels at the composer’s power that they can leave him completely exhausted with only a few tugs on his wings. He knew they were vulnerable, but …. “Sir, that was ….”

` I thought I might break you in a little,` they say simply, and part of him wants to get his head out of their lap to salvage what little bits of dignity he has left. There’s no point, though, the composer able to do with him what they will, and their cold fingers caress the back of his neck as they hum contentment. `You're the sort that likes being used, aren't you,` they muse, and there’s no point denying it.

“Yes, sir,” he says, swallowing a lump in his throat, and oh, hell, he didn’t need them straightening out the wrinkles in his shirt with one hand, businesslike as they undo his buttons, and this is really happening, isn’t it, no matter how indecent it may be.

`It can't be indecent if no one else knows,` and as much as he doesn’t want to imply the composer might be _wrong,_ Megumi still has reservations. They stop moving, though why he isn’t sure, then sit him back up, shirt unbuttoned and more than a bit dazed as the composer vanishes and reappears on the other couch, their fingers in their own hair. ` You really don't want to,` they say, and it’s not like he’s _uninterested,_ exactly, but …. ` Very well,` and they’re gone. 

Leaving him alone and the most frustrated he’s been in his death. 

* * *

The composer doesn’t show up again that day, not that Megumi expected them to. Megumi tries not to expect much of _anything_ where they’re concerned: they aren’t the same type of being and it’s hardly his business how the composer spends their time, so long as the important things get done, and they’ve been running the UG for longer than he could read. He doesn’t have any grounds for complaint, and they send him instructions the same as ever, letting him pretend whatever happened didn’t if he so desires. 

He doesn’t want to ignore it, though: he might not know how to react to the composer wanting to use him for … wanting him to serve in a personal capacity, but he isn’t offended and he hopes they weren’t upset when they left. He’s flattering himself if he thinks the composer cares enough about him to _get_ upset, Megumi knows, but can’t he indulge himself in his own thoughts? He has a duty to Shibuya just as the composer does; there’s no risk he’d ever want them to put him first. 

But he can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. The composer’s so far above him, after all, in both power and responsibility, and what right has he to want anything from them? Even leaving the whole relationship on the composer’s terms, what happens if he starts to expect something that’s not going to happen? Most of the older reapers don’t have much interest in sex or romance, after all: the composer likely truly does only want to use him briefly, and Megumi … Megumi’s never done casual relationships. If the composer was testing him, he’s likely already failed it. 

The whole situation is bizarre, and all he can do is his job, mediating between the reapers as he goes about the city and finds problems for the Players to solve in the next Game, erasing Noise any time it gets above a certain volume. Repetitive work, to be sure, but it needs doing and he’s good at it, and he works on his next album in his free time. Sho’s been helping him with it: he thinks he might venture out into more experimental work, incorporating car alarms in lieu of a drum beat to carry the rhythm. 

Does the composer play music? Obviously they write the symphony Shibuya must follow, but if they play more mundane instruments, he doesn’t know. An odd thing to not know about one’s housemate, but it’s hardly any of his business. 

Still, though, all he sees of them is glimpses, coffee and breakfast prepared already when he wakes up in the morning, pancake mix added to his grocery list in the composer’s neat handwriting, and he almost wishes they’d show up again. Whatever they’re doing on their own frequency is sure to be important, but he hopes he hasn’t offended them. He wasn’t uninterested; he simply … needed time to adjust to the concept. 

He lets it be until the day after a Game finishes, then puts together a simple dinner, assuming the reaper rule of thumb that handmade is superior to something fancy but impersonal, and opens a good bottle of rice wine to go along with it. But how to inform them he’s made enough for two? What if they think he’s being presumptuous, instead of simply offering an invitation they can accept or reject as they please?

Well, with any luck they’ll know he doesn’t mean any harm by it. He clears his throat, then calls out to the empty room, “Sir? Ah, composer? I made dinner.”

`So you did,` he gets as reply, and he has to cover his eyes as they blindingly manifest in front of him, though they dim after a moment and he carefully looks only at their feet before determining they’re as indistinctly anonymous as ever. Good. `I appreciate the effort, Megumi, though next time you could simply get me some shio ramen.`

He glances down at their katsudon in dismay, but the composer daintily picks up the chopsticks with their hands and eats a few pieces before flashing him a V-sign, entirely normally. He’s tempted to laugh in relief, and does, the composer joining him with their voice oily in disuse, and he’s glad he’s done something right. “Shio ramen, eh?”

`I like simple fare; don't you?`

He does. “I prefer tonkotsu,” he admits, and the composer shakes their head, their hair fluffing up even more than it was already, and he shoots down his interest in touching it. 

`A failing I suppose I'll have to forgive,` they say, and he winces. `Oh, I'm just joshing you; don't be so serious, Megumi.`

“I’ll try, sir,” he says, though he doubts he’ll have much success on that front. He finishes his cup to cover for his uncertainty, the alcohol burning on the way down, and goes to refill both their cups before noticing the composer’s hardly touched their own. “Does it not suit you?”

`It was made outside Shibuya, so I can hardly taste it at all,` they reply airily, and a pit forms in his gut. `It's hardly as though you had any way of knowing, Megumi; make me some tea or coffee next time and we'll call it even, hm?`

He can do that right now, and he scarfs down what’s left of his meal before standing up to head back behind the bar. The composer’s following him, he realizes, floating through the furniture and air without any need for solidity, and he swallows uncertainly as he starts up the kettle, unused to supervision. They hum in evident contentment as they drift back down to the floor, their head weirdly lower than his own, and he straightens and looks away before he can be caught staring.

Foolish: there’s no way they don’t know already, but they don’t need him admiring their ethereal beauty and the contrast between their size and power, no matter that they’ve already propositioned him, and he wishes he’d drank enough to blame his growing flush on the alcohol. “Do you have any preference?” he asks, and he jumps at a soft contact to his waist. 

The composer’s perched on the counter by now, foot up innocently like they didn’t just touch his butt with it, and he’s amused to see they’re barefoot. `Oh, I don't know. You should pick, Megumi, seeing as you're the one treating me.`

… Ginseng it is, and he shakes his head as he pours the hot water into the pot and adds the tea leaves. He really doesn’t know what he should be doing about the composer, but at least they’re not upset with him. “Excuse me, sir,” he says, putting it all on a tray to take back to the table, but the composer lifts it out of his hands with their psi and leads the way back to the couches, their elegant suit accentuating their figure in a way he really should not be noticing. 

`I suppose I should ask,` they say, sprawling out and undoing just enough buttons on their shirt to highlight their neck, and Megumi curses whatever it is about him that makes him _notice_ these things sometimes. ` Is this a date?`

Even expecting it, he still bursts into a coughing fit as he sits down across from them, and truthfully he doesn’t know the answer. “I wouldn’t presume to decide either way.”

`But it being a date would be acceptable?` they prod, and he nods uncertainly and adjusts his glasses. `Excellent; I've never been on a date before, so let's make it a good one, eh?`

Well, of _course_ no one has been foolish enough to ask the composer out on one – but they look at him with amused interest and he realizes his mistake. So whoever it was who is now composer hadn’t been involved with romance either? “Next time, I’ll bring flowers,” he promises, only afterward realizing he assumes there’ll **be** a next time, and the composer laughs again. It’s a nice laugh, even as painful and grating as it is, and he hopes he’ll keep hearing it throughout their – partnership. 

He’s going to be working for this being for the rest of his existence, isn’t he. Unless it’s _them_ who gets erased first – and he shuts that thought down. They’re too strange to lose to the likes of Sho, even as gifted as he is and so well-informed despite his youth, and Megumi doesn’t plan on letting anyone else get through while he can stand. 

They’re next to him again, though he didn’t see them move (and why should he? All of Shibuya is theirs –) and they’re humming, strong enough that the couch and Megumi himself vibrate along with them as they twine their fingers through his hair to start braiding it, their psi holding the strands apart so they can caress his neck. It’s intimate, and Megumi doubts he’d trust anyone else to do it, but it pleases the composer and it’s all he can do to obey. 

`I'm glad you grew your hair out after you died,` they say, and he’s unsurprised to learn they know what he used to look like. `You looked ridiculous with it curly.`

“It did that on its own, sir.”

A chuckle carries over the hum as their fingers burrow into his shoulders and ease his shirt off, and he swallows. This is completely inappropriate, but the composer shushes him before he can say anything and snaps a necklace around his neck. He glances down to look at the pendant and rubs the smooth metal of it: plain on one side, but a Player pin on the other, and he feels the traces of the composer’s imagination pervading it.

He moves his arms without thinking so the composer can take his shirt off for him, and the lounge air is chill on his bare shoulders. It’s always cold down here, and the composer ties his hair up in a ponytail before tweaking his nipples and he squeaks. Their laugh distracts him from getting upset about it, though, and they smack his stomach experimentally, light but loud. 

`Surprisingly firm,` they say, and thank you: he tries. 

“I had hopes of becoming a rock star,” he admits, but it’s not to be and he doesn’t mind: there’d be too many people to deal with if he got successful. “Spent much of my time in the gym.”

`It shows,` they say, and the praise settles comfortably within him, even as the composer runs their fingers through his chest hair. Perhaps he should have shaved, but they seem to be enjoying themself, and their interest continues downward to that stretch of hair starting around his navel, and – lower.

He flushes and pushes down the impulse to back away: he might not be deserving of this, but it’s the composer’s own decision to examine him most intimately, and they cup over his groin firmly as he tries not to yelp.

`This position is insufficient,` they say, and he darts a helpless glance at them as they hop onto the back of the couch and shove instructions into his brain. `Move, Megumi,` and he does. 

His room might be more comfortable than this couch, as soft as it is, but he doesn’t have the right to suggest it and the composer hums in contentment as he moves his head onto the armrest and pulls his feet onto the cushions, his knees bent so he can fit, and he’s too tall and old for this sort of thing anymore. He isn’t the one planning it, though, and the composer pushes him down and straddles his waist in one smooth motion, their psi unbuttoning his jeans to slide his cock out, and he whimpers. Even knowing his life (and death) always rests in their hands doesn’t make it less terrifying to have his dick near that crackle of power, and they smile at him beatifically as they sit back, balanced weightlessly against his knees. 

“Sir?” he says, and their grin widens. 

`Get your trousers off, my snake. I want to hear you sing.`

His brow furrows at that, unsure how to react. “… Very good, sir,” he settles on, and the composer laughs. He chuckles, too, deciding they meant to be joking, and they laugh harder. He’s glad to be amusing, but …. “Sir, you’re sitting on my legs.”

`It's a topological exercise, just for your benefit.`

“I’m flattered, sir.” 

This doesn’t make it any easier to figure out, and he cranes up as he slides his fingers into his waistband. They’re light enough to provide no resistance, but his stomach flips as he passes through them more than once, their location not updating in time with his movements. Megumi’s dead, too, but he’s never had that problem: he’s as solid as he was while alive, but perhaps the composer works differently, and he lifts his feet to slide the rest of his clothes off as the composer sets their own feet on his chest, holding him down. 

He gulps, so exposed when compared to the fully-dressed composer, and they tackle him, their mouth crashing into his own as he tries to find where to put his hands. He tries around their waist, only to find the hem of their shirt merges seamlessly into the flesh below, and they bite his lip, drawing his attention back to the haphazard kiss. They’re slow as they lead, their hair burning as it brushes against his face, but he stays put as they lick his stubble, their tongue strangely oily and he feels a little like he’s being marked. 

“Sir ….”

`If you're good, I'll let you come,` they say, and they snatch his wrists away from their waist and guide them to behind his back as he whimpers, embarrassingly needy. He feels them prodding at his mind, checking something, and then some Noise forms around his hands, keeping him bound as his wings twitch, aching to erase it. He’s doing a marvelous job ignoring his dick, if he does say so himself, but their knee brushes against it and he strains up on his elbows. `You want to be good, don't you, my conductor?`

“Uh, yes, sir,” he says, and they touch his cock just lightly enough to leave him yearning for more. “Yes, sir,” he says firmly, and they take his cock in hand, their fingers a little slimy and oddly warm. They’re changing their body to pleasure him, he realizes, and he almost wants to laugh. He truly doesn’t need that consideration, but they thumb at the head of it and he pushes up into their hand, already hard. 

`Your Noise form, is it venomous?` they ask briskly, squeezing him, and he nods confirmation. `Close your eyes and **bite me,** Megumi.`

He – he can’t do that, scrunching his eyes shut as he tries to scramble back, but the prickle of nails and power crackling around his bits hold him still and the composer gave him an order.

`Do it, Megumi,` they command, solidifying on top of him as they grip his neck in one hand and dick in the other, and he – he obeys, the viper Noise striking light-fast and delivering its payload into the composer’s shoulder as they sigh in pain and collapse onto him, handjob forgotten as the Noise binding his wrists dissipates. 

Oh, fuck.

Oh, _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he’s killed them or nearly so, and he falls forward onto them, tears muddying his face as he thinks of what he’s just done to the _composer of Shibuya,_ much less – he sees just enough to register blond hair before squeezing his eyes shut again for their privacy, and they shake and laugh as he tries to come to terms with what he’s just done. He’s killed them; he’s fucking killed them, and now _he’s_ going to be composer, and they push his hair away from his face and kiss his forehead and say:

` Boo.`

It takes him a moment, so sure he is that he’s ruined everything, but he springs back up and looks at them and they’re glowing as usual, not even remotely human. “Sir!” he cries, and he knows he can’t look dignified right now but he doesn’t care.

`I always did want to try that,` they say, but he just – they just _died,_ and they aren’t even angry. ` Ah, and I forgot to give you your reward -- one moment, Megumi.`

“Sir, I’m fine,” he tries to say, but the composer does – something, and he feels himself release, maybe not one of the better times but exhausting, and he might just – he might just lie here for a while, actually, if the composer doesn’t mind, but seeing as they’re perched on top of him and keep stroking his hair and chest, he thinks this might be just fine.

Megumi doubts he understands the composer any more than he did before – this, whatever this is (and shouldn’t they have wanted him to touch them? Whatever; it’s not his business) but if they felt like using him again ….

Who is he fooling; it’s unlikely they will, and the composer doesn’t waste their time replying. They keep twitching, actually, their hands stopping as they stroke him, and he thinks they might still be working through the aftereffects of his bite. No way of knowing, though, and Megumi barely knows some of how his Noise’s psyches work himself. Enough to see an elephant Noise tear itself to shreds from it, but on another person? No, and he hadn’t expected to. 

`Your heart wasn't in it, Megumi, so I'm fine,` the composer says eventually, and he lets out a long breath. `It'll wear off eventually, or I could cleanse it out right now, but I think I enjoy the feeling of your energies wandering around mine and trying not to touch anything. It's a bit typical, don't you think?`

He doesn’t understand, but he doubts he needs to. “Of course, sir,” and they climb off of him to stand and look down upon him, contemplative. “Did you,” he starts, cautious as they watch him, and decides a statement of fact might work better: “I hardly touched you.”

Not the right track. `I'm fine, Megumi,` they say, a sharp edge to their thought, and privately he has doubts. He assumed they intended on having their way with him, rather than – whatever this was, him tired and relaxed without having come, the composer willingly wounded, and even if he’s pleasantly buzzed, this was – strange. 

“May I dress, then, if you have no further need of me?” he tries, and the composer scowls, gesturing for him to stay put and sit up like those aren’t contradictory, but he remains on the couch as he sits up and that seems to satisfy them, at least for a moment. They rub their fingers together and conjure a blanket, then, and wrap him up in it as they levitate him just enough to get it under his ass, and oh dear, he’s likely gotten a great deal of sweat on the couch. Hopefully the composer can fix it, but if not he’s never going to be able to look at this couch the same way. 

`You're staying right here until I dismiss you,` the composer snaps, and he really didn’t mean to – all right, he hasn’t upset them, and they nudge him to one side enough to hop back onto the couch themself, their back to his side with the blanket shielding him from their aura, and he has the strangest urge to nuzzle their hair. He doesn’t see himself as being touchy-feely, and touching the composer without their express permission would probably be suicide, but still, they’re invitingly soft-looking and it takes a great deal of willpower for him to sit back and ignore it. 

Enough that he almost wants to start talking to distract himself, but what does he have to tell the composer? They already know everything of import, and they sigh and push closer to him as he stretches his legs and tries to give them more space. The couch is only so big, though, and the composer keeps edging closer, so he eventually has to give up and hold still as they rest their head in his lap and he tries very hard not to look at them. 

`Megumi,` they say eventually, and he straightens. `You can leave if you wish, I suppose,` they say, holding him down with their psi as he starts moving reflexively. `I'm quite content to stay right here, but if you truly do not -- if my presence unsettles you so, I have no desire to make you uncomfortable.`

“Sir,” he says, uncertain, and the composer _sighs,_ covering their eyes with one arm, though Megumi could barely make out their face as it was.

` You can touch me, you know,` they say, and he hurries to pull his arm out of the blanket to do just that, until they continue: `That wasn't an order.` He stills again, and the composer seems somehow … disappointed. He doesn’t _not_ want to touch them, but he watches them silently for a minute before sneaking his hand to brush the composer’s hair, curious of the texture. More like fabric than normal hair, he learns, though incredibly soft, and he marvels at how it flows, keeping its shape no matter what he does. 

It’s very nearly relaxing, and the composer hums softly as he strokes them, less interested in the contact himself than he thinks they are. But even having planned to spend the night at their disposal, Megumi’s never been one to sit idle, and it’s not long before his legs are stiff and he aches to do something productive with his time. “Sir, may I …” he starts, and the composer snaps up, vanishing off him to watch him balefully from the other couch, and he wonders again if he’s doing something wrong. 

`Go clean up,` they say finally, and he stands up in relief, holding the blanket around him to preserve his modesty. `You did well, Megumi; now let's discuss plans for next week, shall we?`

“Yes, sir,” and it’s with honest enthusiasm that he returns his room and the shower, his sordid evening already forgotten. 

So it goes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, geez, is this the first Joshua/Kitaniji fic on ao3? Some people need to repost their stuff off of LJ, I guess.
> 
> The sequel to Between the Black Dirt's about 50k words along currently; I can't estimate when it'll be done enough to post, but I'm probably less than halfway through. It'll get done eventually, I promise! I dashed this off in a few days to celebrate, haha.
> 
> Feel free to ask if you've any questions to what's going through Joshua's head in this, though I'd thank you to pick individual bits :B


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